Harper's Bride (22 page)

For the first time in two years, he felt
lost, disconnected. The isolated little tent town he'd once known
was growing so quickly, it changed its face on an almost daily
basis.

Change wasn't necessarily bad, he reflected
as he passed the skeleton of a new building. And it was
unavoidable—plans and people changed, friends sometimes drifted
away. Or died. But there was comfort in some things staying the
same, and that was what he missed. Rafe had been a dependable
constant, his best friend in Dawson and one of the few truly good
friends he'd ever had, for all that some had viewed him as an
acerbic though stylish drunk. No one could comment on this carnival
with the wit and perception that Rafe had conveyed.

After wandering along Front Street, Dylan
finally found himself in front of his own store. He looked up at
the second-floor window. Melissa was up there. He felt drawn to
her, as a traveler adrift on a moonless night would gravitate to a
light in a window.

She and Jenny had added something to his life
here, and he'd gotten used to having them with him. For just a
moment he wished he could go up there and bury his head in
Melissa's lap and tell her about his worries. She would hum to him
and stroke his hair and make everything seem right again.

He could tell himself that Rafe's incident
with Priscilla had no relevance to himself and Melissa—and he would
probably be right. But in the corner of his heart, he knew the
difference wasn't that great.

God, he didn't want to die the way Rafe had,
alone and calling for a woman he'd yearned for but never held
close. A man ought to make his life count for something more than a
lot of regrets about things left undone and unsaid.

He just wanted to go home—to leave this place
and go back to Oregon. But leaving here would mean saying good-bye
to Melissa, too, and he was beginning to think he might not be able
to do that.

He went into the store for a bottle of
whiskey—someone should lift a glass to Rafe's memory. His gaze fell
on the empty chair in the corner where his friend had spent so many
hours, pitching cards at a chamber pot and commenting on the human
condition. A dull ache crept up from his chest to his throat, and
he felt his eyes start to burn.

Damn it, he thought and grabbed the whiskey
bottle by the neck. If he stayed here by himself, he'd end up
bawling like a little kid—for his friend and for himself—and he
didn't want to do that. Striding to the door, he yanked it open and
headed upstairs.

That small room was home, and right now the
only one he had.

*~*~*

Melissa had looked at the clock at least a
dozen times in the last forty-five minutes. Hours had passed since
Dylan left. She'd gone downstairs to see if he was in the store.
She'd even peeked over the swinging doors at the Yukon Girl. There
was no sign of him, or Rafe either.

Now she paced the small floor, wearing the
clothes she had put on to go to dinner. She had avoided sitting
much for fear of wrinkling her nice dress, and her feet were
getting tired in her new shoes.

Jenny had started fussing as well, as if she,
too, were waiting for his return. But it looked as if he wouldn't
be back in time for the Fairview dinner.

Melissa had no idea why Dylan had left so
abruptly. She assumed it had something to do with Rafe—something
very serious—but what, she couldn't guess.

Unless . . . Oh, God,
what if Rafe had grown worse?

He had stopped to talk to her yesterday when
he dropped by the store. He'd shuffled and wheezed like an old man
and hadn't looked much better than one.

Maybe he needed someone to take care of him.
Maybe he'd even been become bedridden. Nothing was as bad as not
knowing.

Jenny's displeasure rose in volume, and
Melissa picked up the baby to walk her. "Oh, button, please don't
start in now," she urged, jogging the baby as she paced. Her
tension mounted with each circuit.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity,
she heard Dylan's footsteps on the stairs. Putting Jenny in her
cradle, she turned just as he walked in, and with one glimpse of
his face, knew something terrible had happened. Beyond his
handsomeness and his presence that filled any room he entered, he
looked haggard, as if he hadn't slept in days. Even his wide
shoulders seemed to droop. Her heart jumped in her chest, and she
was engulfed by a feeling of dread.

"Dylan, what's wrong?"

He put a bottle on the floor next to him and
sank into a chair, weary and boneless. When he looked up at her,
she saw loss in his green eyes. "Rafe is dead."

She gaped at him. "What?"

He nodded and leaned forward to put his head
in his hands. His long, sun-streaked hair fell forward, obscuring
part of his face. "Not more than an hour ago."

Her hands and stomach were suddenly icy.
"How? What happened? Did someone kill him? Was there an
accident?"

"You know he's been fading for the past few
weeks. He had that weak heart. It finally gave out."

Rafe had told her about it once. He said he'd
gotten it from rheumatism fever when he was a boy.

"Oh, Dylan, no," she murmured, feeling her
eyes sting with tears. Rafe had been the one who rescued her from
Coy, even if the proceedings at the saloon had been only for show,
so that Dylan could give her a place to go from there. "I'm so
sorry."

She wished she could offer the solace of her
arms. Sometimes an embrace was more comforting than words. But
though she had felt him watching her when he thought she wasn't
looking, after that one kiss he had kept his distance. So instead
she sat across the table from him, her heart aching with love for
him and grief for Rafe's passing.

"Did you get to say good-bye?" she asked. How
she wished she'd known yesterday that she would never see him
again.

"Yeah. Belinda Mulrooney sat with him until I
got there. He didn't last long after that."

She gazed at the checkered oilcloth on the
table, trying to conquer her quivering voice. "At least he didn't
die alone. That would have been terrible." She plucked at a loose
thread in the cloth. "I hope he was at peace."

He lifted his head then and looked at her. "I
don't think he . . ." His words had a croaky sound. "He had a few
regrets. His life wasn't long enough to let him do all the things
he wanted." He sat back in his chair and pulled a leather pouch
from his pocket. "He asked me to give this to you." He pushed it
across the table to her.

"Me?" She sat back and blinked. "I-I can't
accept this, Dylan. He was your friend. You should have it." His
gaze skittered away from hers, and he shrugged like a
guilty-looking child who claimed to not know who took the last
cookie. "He thought you might need it."

Might need it. For the day when Dylan told
her he was going home. She reached out and lifted the pouch—it was
heavy. She drew a shaky sigh. "Will there be a funeral?"

He massaged his forehead with his fingertips.
"The undertaker is arranging something for ten o'clock tomorrow
morning," he replied woodenly. He leaned over and picked up the
bottle he'd brought in with him, then went to the shelf for a
glass.

Melissa's eyes riveted on the dark brown
bottle as if it were rattlesnake. The memory of a hundred nights,
maybe a thousand, came crowding in on her mind, blotting out
everything—Rafe's death, Dylan's grief, her own love for him. All
she saw was a whiskey bottle in her father's hands, in Coy's hands,
and imagining everything that had gone with it—the arguing, the
hitting, the voices raised in anger—

"What are you doing?" she asked.

Dylan looked at her with a puzzled
expression. "What does it look like I'm doing? I'm going to have a
drink."

Melissa knew that he went down to the saloon
now and then—sometimes she could even smell the alcohol on his
breath. She didn't like it, although she didn't have to be around
it, either. But he'd never brought a bottle upstairs before.

"No, you can't," she said and pushed her
chair away from the table. "I mean, not here you can't. Not
here."

"What do you mean, I can't?" he demanded.

"You have to take that bottle out of here. I
don't care where." She heard the harpy tone in her voice, the
creeping hysteria, but she couldn't stop it.

His brows dropped even lower. "The hell I
will. What's got into you? I just watched my best friend die, and I
want a drink." With angry defiance he uncorked the bottle and
sloshed the amber liquid up to the rim of the short glass, but made
no move to take a sip.

Jenny began to complain again, but Melissa
stood fast, trembling with years of suppressed anger and hurt. "I
lived with that"—she pointed at the liquor—"all my life and I don't
want to anymore. I'm not asking for much—please, take that outside
or downstairs or wherever you want to pour it down your throat. I
don't want to be around it."

Rafe's gray, sunken face stayed in Dylan's
mind as clearly as if he were looking at its photograph. He was in
no mood to analyze what bothered Melissa. She stood on the other
side of the table, reminding him of a pinched-up temperance worker,
and sounding like Elizabeth at her worst and most demanding. Her
gray eyes flashed, and the color was high in her cheeks.

"Please, Dylan—this isn't a joke," she
stressed.

Disillusionment and grief combined to give
him a temper one inch long. He slammed the bottle down near the
edge of the table. A dollop of whiskey shot out of the top and
splashed his hand. "Now you listen to me," he said, pointing at
her. "I'm not your father, and I'm not your husband. That means
you're not my wife. This is my room. I built it with my own two
hands, and I'll do whatever I please here, when I please."

Her face became flushed, and her chin
quivered ever so slightly. "Shall we leave, then, Jenny and I?"

"No, damn it!" No. He plowed his hand through
his hair, knowing he'd said the wrong thing.

He stared at her, dressed for a dinner they
wouldn't be going to. She'd pulled her hair back with a wide blue
ribbon that matched the stripe in her dress. The gown showed off to
perfection the fullness of her breasts, her small waist, the curve
of her hip. Didn't she understand? Didn't she know how beautiful
she was to him? Or how scared he was? He was afraid of losing her,
but afraid of losing himself by loving her.

But, then, how could he make her understand
what he barely understood himself? He'd come upstairs, hoping to
somehow escape his grief, hoping for comfort, and he couldn't ask
her for it. He took a step toward her, his hands extended like a
supplicant's, trying to keep his churning emotions out of his
voice.

"When a man dies, having lived just half of
his years, with nothing to show for his life—no children, no
legacy—" He choked to a stop, unable to find the words he
needed.

Melissa's expression softened, and he saw her
tense shoulders relax a bit. "You don't see yourself in Rafe, do
you? He always knew his time would be short."

He stepped closer and took her hand in his.
She looked so irresistible, so vital and warm. "Knowing doesn't
make someone ready," he said, trying to grasp the depth of his own
bewilderment. He rested his forehead against her shoulder and
sighed.

"No, I guess not," she agreed. "I don't know
if there's an answer." He felt her stroke his hair with a light,
tentative touch that sent delicious soothing shivers down his back.
Inexplicably, in this aftermath of death he felt a need to reaffirm
his own existence and everything that made him a man. He took her
chin between his thumb and forefinger to tip her face up to his.
Her soft, pink mouth lay just within reach of his own, trembling
slightly, moist.

"Melissa," he murmured. "I . . ." But he had
no more words. He had only the urge to feel her lips under his, and
he pulled her to him to take her in a kiss. The instant they
touched, warmth spread through Dylan that soon turned to fire,
sweeping along his veins and melting the frost that lay on his
heart from watching a man die.

He put his arm around her waist and held her
closer, while he probed the slick warm depths of her mouth with his
tongue. A quiet little moan rose from her throat, stoking his
arousal to a hard, insistent throb. She felt so good in his arms.
He let his hand drift from her chin, down the side of her slender
neck to her full breast, where he longed to lay his head.

Drawing a deep breath, she threaded her arms
around his neck and let her weight rest against him.

Breaking the kiss, he trailed his lips down
her throat where her pulse beat as swift as a bird's. Dylan didn't
think he'd ever wanted a woman as much as he wanted Melissa right
now. Shifting his weight, he took a step back and pulled her with
him to rest against the length of his torso.

The sharp sound of breaking glass interrupted
them as effectively as a dousing of cold water. Melissa broke from
his embrace and stared at something on the floor behind him.
Turning, Dylan saw that he'd bumped into the whiskey bottle he'd
left sitting on the edge of the table. Its shattered remains lay in
a star-burst puddle of whiskey. The biting odor drifted up to
them.

"I wish you had taken that out of here," she
cried, her hand at her mouth. She lifted angry gray eyes to his. "I
hate that smell. Oh, God, I just hate it." The remnants of Dylan's
passion fizzled away in the face of her outburst.

She hurried to the sink and grabbed a towel.
Then, in her best dress, she sank to her knees and blotted at the
whiskey and broken glass.

He touched her shoulder. "Melissa, I'll do
that."

She shook her head, but wouldn't look up at
him. She had shut him out again, apparently for indulging a vice
that reminded her of her father and her late husband.